After he had come back from shaving, he watched her flit about the room while she set the table.  She was the competent young mistress of the house.  With grave young authority she moved, slenderly graceful.  He knew her mind was with the cook in the kitchen, but she found time to order Keith crisply to wash his face and hands, time to gather flowers for the center of the table from the front yard and to keep up a running fire of talk with him and her father.  More of the woman than in the days when he had known her, perhaps less of the carefree maiden, she was essentially unchanged, was what he might confidently have expected her to be.  Emerson Crawford was the same bluff, hearty Westerner, a friend to tie to in sunshine and in storm.  Even little Keith, just escaping from his baby ways, had the same tricks and mannerisms.  Nothing was different except himself.  He had become arid and hard and bitter, he told himself regretfully.

Keith was his slave, a faithful admirer whose eyes fed upon his hero steadily.  He had heard the story of this young man’s deeds discussed until Dave had come to take on almost mythical proportions.

He asked a question in an awed voice.  “How did you get this Miller to confess?”

The guest exchanged a glance with the host.  “We had a talk with him.”

“Did you—?”

“Oh, no!  We just asked him if he didn’t want to tell us all about it, and it seems he did.”

“Maybe you touched his better feelin’s,” suggested Keith, with memories of an hour in Sunday School when his teacher had made a vain appeal to his.

His father laughed.  “Maybe we did.  I noticed he was near blubberin’.  I expect it’s ‘Adios, Senor Miller.’  He’s got two years more to serve, and after that he’ll have another nice long term to serve for robbin’ the stage.  All I wish is we’d done the job more thorough and sent some friends of his along with him.  Well, that’s up to Applegate.”

“I’m glad it is,” said Joyce emphatically.

“Any news to-day from Jackpot Number Three?” asked the president of that company.

“Bob Hart sent in to get some supplies and had a note left for me at the post-office,” Miss Joyce mentioned, a trifle annoyed at herself because a blush insisted on flowing into her cheeks.  “He says it’s the biggest thing he ever saw, but it’s going to be awf’ly hard to control.  Where is that note?  I must have put it somewhere.”

Emerson’s eyes flickered mischief.  “Oh, well, never mind about the note.  That’s private property, I reckon.”

“I’m sure if I can find it—­”

“I’ll bet my boots you cayn’t, though,” he teased.

“Dad!  What will Mr. Sanders think?  You know that’s nonsense.  Bob wrote because I asked him to let me know.”

“Sure.  Why wouldn’t the secretary and field superintendent of the Jackpot Company keep the daughter of the president informed?  I’ll have it read into the minutes of our next board meetin’ that it’s in his duties to keep you posted.”